Don't see The Producers if you're easily offended, the rest of us are having a blast

Look, we all know it's a show about crooked Jewish producers mounting a musical about Nazis so check your outrage at the door. This transfer from the Menier Chocolate Factory includes a waiter dressed as Jesus (in loin cloth and crown of thrones), an anatomically blessed male statue, pigeons emblazoned with swastikas and more laughs (of delight and shock) than most productions could ever dream of.

This is Mel Brooks unleashed (we even had a message from the maestro on opening night), and no subject is safe. It's also blessed with the 99-year-old's genius for gloriously catchy, unabashedly hammy melodies and (possibly against its own will) has tons of heart.

Given more room to breathe (and a bigger budget) at The Garrick, Patrick Marber's original lean and sparky production spreads its pidgeon wings and soars. We roared with delight throughout at the big numbers and broad gags, and the smaller, but no less joyous or clever, delights.

Brooks' undeniable gift for tackling the most taboo of themes to de-fang them is as needed now as ever. The fact that I physically squirmed at certain scenes, especially considering recent events in America, and then questioned my response - all while having an absolute blast - is pure testament to what an inspired show this is. How wonderful it is to have it back on stage and so superbly done.

Memories of Zero Mostel and then Nathan Lane loom large, but an extraordinary Andy Nyman makes shady shyster Max Bialystock utterly his own. He's a slumped tornado of sweaty, schlubby scheming as he schtups (very willing) old ladies to get money to mount endlessly failing shows.

Salvation arrives with accountant Leo Bloom (Mark Antolin, equally fantastic), a twitchy tower of ticks and neuroses who figures out that if they purposefully mounted a guaranteed flop for far less cash than they collected, they wouldn't have to repay their investors and could flit with the rest.

Enter Franz (a scene-stealingly ridiculous Harry Morrison) in his tinpot hat and lederhosen, with his harmonising, swastika'd pigeons and the script for Springtime For Hitler The stage is almost set, all we need is a terrible director. Cue the ludicrously limp-wristed Roger DeBris (first seen in a sequined gown, later entering in a golden chariot), hysterically played by a dialled up to eleven Trevor Ashley, backed by his camp crew. What could possibly go wrong?

The mounting of Springtime For Hitler's title number is a jaw-dropping parade of pretzels, skewered pigs and parades of show boys in "very tight pants." We're literally cheering and beaming as the Nazi banners unfurl. A timely reminder in an age of terrifying geopolitical tides that "all ya gotta know is, everything is showbiz."

The production wonderfully retains its scrappy low-fi Menier origins. It expands sets and costumes just enough to fit the West End but keeps its focus tightly on the material and the performances, all of which, without exception, shine.

'Alle heil' this victorious show, on its most glorious invasion of London's West End.

THE PRODUCERS IS PLAYING AT THE GARRICK THEATRE